As the eastbound Doto Expressway approached the Minami Furano area, the snowfall intensified. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel slightly, thinking this was only natural for November in the mountains.
Even on the highway, aside from passing zones, it’s just one lane each way, separated from oncoming traffic by nothing more than a low fence or center poles. Large trucks roared past my side window. Some might be hauling freshly harvested oysters in their beds, bound for Sapporo, for Tokyo. I was heading the opposite direction, against the flow, toward the source: Akkeshi.
My destination was Akkeshi’s “Oyster Festival.” If all I wanted was fresh oysters, it would probably be cheaper to buy them in Sapporo once you factored in the highway tolls and gas. Distribution networks have evolved to the point where delivery and shipping are effortless. Yet I found myself drawn to the act of “going to get food” — and so I set out for the production site in Akkeshi.
When I arrived in the Akkeshi area, the mountain weather had cleared as if the storm had been an unpleasant dream. The temperature was in the single digits, but the wind was calm. An event space had been set up in a park on the edge of town, with local fishery operators lining up tents. Akkeshi oysters, clams, and scallops were being sold steamed, charcoal-grilled, or raw.
Most of the visitors seemed to be local families, and the atmosphere felt almost like a spring cherry blossom viewing. Each group had staked out space in the park, grilling ingredients on portable or rented grills they’d brought. Beer cans popped open. Laughter echoed.
As a tourist — or perhaps an intruder — I bought and ate oysters, clams, and scallops that had already been prepared. Steam rose from the charcoal-grilled oysters. The scent of the sea tickled my nose, and when I put one in my mouth, a rich umami spread across my palate. What existed there was a strange sense of unity, as if all humans shared the same taste and happiness.
In the end, I only ate four or five. I could have had more, but quantity wasn’t the point. The taste was unbelievably fresh, delicious. I felt as though all ingredients were naturally connected. Sighing repeatedly with admiration and satisfaction, I recalled something a fisherman at another Hokkaido port once told me.
“People say Hokkaido is all about seafood, but the good stuff? That all goes to Sapporo and Tokyo first. That’s where it sells for more.”
I nodded in agreement, and the fisherman added with a laugh:
“But the really good stuff? We eat that ourselves, here. Just don’t tell anyone.”
On the return trip west from Akkeshi, I encountered snow again. The wipers moved rhythmically, clearing my view. Replaying the memory of the oysters I’d just tasted, I felt certain that beyond time and distance, “the really good stuff” truly existed.
On the way there, I’d entertained needlessly complex thoughts — that tracing the supply chain backward and “going to get food” was somehow an act of approaching a hunter-gatherer lifestyle. Maybe I was just getting bored with driving, half-enclosed in the snowy car. The reality is much simpler. Wherever it may be, you simply go where the good food is. Perhaps that’s what keeps people moving. At least, that’s what I think I’ll keep doing.
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